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An Absence

An Absence

 

Names filled with letters and liquor.

A twist tie twists and I hear Zest taking the

garbage out.

I want a county style day,

where those roads I love

take me from people I don’t.

The places are eager for touch.

My thigh draws his hand closer

our skin fusing under the heat of the windshield.

 

After the detergent is bought,

and the bookstore has pinned us against the wall

and takes our money, we go down the roads again

to laze and lounge

in the house of pasta we built.

 

But now the roads are curled away from me.

His hand has greater work than joy for now,

in places that growl low in the night.

Color

Color is called back

only on loan from light

this whole time.

How will I know my house

without its yellow coat,

my friend without her green soul?

 

The houses and souls are still there,

Sure. Just the pigment is gone.

But now we must converse

with ourselves, ask our feet

Who are you and what do you want?

Because what we are left with is conversation,

Though most have trashed their memory of speech.

 

September Tells a Tale

September tells me a story

of children made only of fog

or of the perfect arrangement of fallen leaves

right before the breeze blows.

 

Some children wanted to sing

and others to shine.

 

But children shimmer

and then are gone –

sear sucker left on the ground rumpled.

 

They grow up,

move into cities of wine,

houses of immaculate deception.

Going With Ghosts

Ghoulish women crowd dark corners.

Light glistens on my breath.

There is an evil menagerie beyond the gate.

I am dancing motionless.

There are many cathedrals waiting

to be unearthed in my garden.

 

I want to remember exhaustion

Sex,

Monday mornings,

Gratitude.

I hate Complacency

and the way he makes everything pale

and organized.

 

I’m packed and ready

to follow the ghosts and learn

what they know,

but I dread the low opacity

the cold

being unchallenged

and unchanging

Economics

The graph is depressed,

its lines dragging down

into the gutter.

Do you hear Wall Street shiver,

Main Street shutter?

 

I feed the red line from my hands.

An IV from me to a neighbor

when I buy a frivolity and they ring me up.

It is not enough;

my fingers are shreds of paper.

Our island is sinking into this sea.

Who can we grab

that we won’t drown

 

alone?

 

Pulling on a gold that won’t come.

 

I have a card.

You have a card.

Our leader has a card.

We have no eyes.

Hear the world run.

 

 

Mother Luck

Mother Luck

 

Be kind.

This year is sticky and sweet.

My weeks are rotting out.

 

In the canals the water fishes for teeth.

Tuesday is bare backed, draped

over a settee –

too generous with its mornings.

 

My yellow, savory evenings are limpid with trust.

To die like the day does –

More and more color then stardust….

My body grinding its gears

like a Wednesday jealous of Friday.

A Love Story in Math

7 is in love with 0.

0 is lovely,

has the DNA for heaven and Earth

and whatever the Hell my old job was.

7 is proud and strong and knows he is luckier than 6

or his ex girlfriend 8.

But he roams into the rafters of primacy,

of sharp eyed division,

and the comfort of 0 –

the way she gives of herself

and doesn’t exist,

is missed by him,

who can see only her perfection on the page

her gift for making others greater.

But beneath the tired eyes of mathematics

.000001 is also in love with her,

and is much more in reach

and glad to be.